*Third Epoch, Year 247 of the Glorious Era*
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Darkness had ruled for so long that even the concept of light had become myth.
Amon adjusted his crystal monocle with a languid gesture, a habit he'd developed in the mere two centuries since his birth—though calling it "birth" felt imprecise. He and his brother Adam had not been *born* so much as they had been *separated*, carved from their father's divine essence like sculptures freed from marble. The Uniquenesses given form. Consciousness granted to concepts that should have remained abstract.
"You're thinking too loudly again," Adam said from across the obsidian table, not bothering to look up from the First Blasphemy Slate fragment he studied. His golden eyes—so similar to their father's, yet somehow fundamentally different—remained fixed on the ancient script. "Your amusement ripples through the Astral World like pebbles in still water."
Amon smiled, reaching up to adjust his monocle once more. The gesture was unnecessary; the crystalline lens sat perfectly positioned over his right eye. But the motion helped him *think*, helped him calculate the countless variables of existence that others found so tediously straightforward.
"I was simply contemplating Father's grand declaration," Amon replied, his voice carrying that characteristic blend of casual amusement and something deeper, more ancient. "Two thousand years ago, in the depths of that gloriously chaotic sea, a human researcher named Grisha emerged and proclaimed 'Let there be light.' How magnificently *absurd*. A mortal demanding illumination from a universe that had forgotten what day looked like."
"And yet," Adam countered, finally lifting his gaze, "light came."
"And yet," Amon echoed, tilting his head with bird-like curiosity, "light came."
The palace around them—one of eight scattered across the continents—hummed with divine resonance. Servants moved through corridors with reverent silence, their prayers creating a constant background susurrus that neither brother particularly noticed anymore. Such was life as sons of the Ancient Sun God, the deity who had systematically dismantled the reign of the Eight Ancient Gods and elevated humanity from enslaved masses to the dominant race.
Amon rose from his seat, the motion fluid despite his apparent youth. In physical form, he appeared perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, with raven-black hair and eyes that held the weight of stolen eternities. The Error Uniqueness thrummed within him, an endless hunger to find loopholes, to steal concepts, to parasitize reality itself.
"Where are you going?" Adam asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
"Medici invited me to observe his latest campaign," Amon said, adjusting his monocle. "Something about the remaining Dragon spawn near the Forsaken Coast making nuisances of themselves. I thought it might prove... *interesting*."
Adam's expression remained neutral, but Amon felt his brother's consciousness brush against his own—a gentle probe that he deflected with practiced ease. Even between them, even as sons of the same divine father, trust had its limits.
"Do try not to parasitize any of Father's Kings of Angels this time," Adam said dryly. "Sasrir complained for three weeks after your last 'experiment.'"
Amon's smile widened into something genuinely delighted. "Oh, *that*. In my defense, I explicitly asked if he minded me borrowing his perception for a few days. He said yes."
"He said yes to *asking*, not to doing."
"Semantics, my zealous brother." Amon waved his hand dismissively, though his fingers moved through a subtle sequence—a Marauder's instinctive mapping of escape routes, even here in the heart of his father's domain. "Language is full of such delightful loopholes. One simply needs to know where to look."
He turned toward the door, then paused, struck by a thought that made him adjust his monocle three times in rapid succession—a sign of genuine calculation rather than mere habit.
"Adam," he said, his voice losing some of its playful edge. "Do you ever wonder what Father fears?"
His brother's silence stretched for precisely seven seconds. Then: "Father fears nothing. He is the Ancient Sun God, Quasi-God Almighty, the Lord that Created Everything."
"Yes, yes, the honorifics are all very impressive," Amon said, but his tone had sharpened. "Yet he separated us from himself. Carved away the Visionary Uniqueness and granted it to you. Severed the Error Uniqueness and gave consciousness to me. One doesn't reduce one's own power without reason."
"Perhaps," Adam replied carefully, "he simply wished for sons."
"Perhaps," Amon agreed, but his monocle glinted with something that might have been doubt. "Or perhaps even gods can feel the weight of too much convergence."
Before Adam could respond, Amon vanished—not through teleportation, but through a more fundamental theft. He stole his own spatial coordinates and replaced them with new ones, leaving only the faintest ripple in the Spirit World to mark his passage.
---
The Forsaken Coast materialized around him in a burst of stolen distance. Here, at the world's edge where Ancient God remnants still clung to existence, the air tasted of salt and old blood.
Medici stood atop a cliff overlooking the battlefield, his crimson hair whipping in winds that reeked of dragon-fire and desperation. The Red Angel of War cut an impressive figure—Sequence 2 Conqueror, natural-born Mythical Creature, and the only being Amon had ever seen who could hold infant-him without flinching.
"You're late," Medici said without turning.
"I'm precisely on time," Amon countered, appearing beside him with a casual adjustment of his monocle. "Time, after all, is rather flexible when one knows how to *borrow* it."
Medici finally glanced at him, scarlet eyes assessing. "One day, little raven, your clever thefts will steal something you can't return."
"But think how *interesting* that day will be."
Below them, the Red of War Army engaged the Dragon spawn—lesser creatures, barely Sequence 5 or 6, but vicious in their desperation. They fought with the fury of a dying species, knowing their Ancient God progenitors had fallen to the Ancient Sun God's might.
Amon watched with detached fascination as Medici's soldiers moved in perfect coordination, their minds connected to their commander's will through the Red Priest pathway's authority. It was elegant, in its way. Brutally efficient.
"Tell me, Medici," Amon said conversationally, "do you ever tire of war?"
"Do you ever tire of stealing?"
"Touché." Amon adjusted his monocle, using the gesture to mark each soldier below, cataloging their Beyonder characteristics with Marauder instinct. "Though I would argue that theft is merely... aggressive borrowing. With no intention of returning the borrowed items."
"That's called stealing."
"Semantics."
Medici's lips twitched—perhaps the closest thing to a smile the War Angel typically displayed. "Your father asked about you yesterday."
Amon's hand froze halfway to his monocle. "Oh?"
"He wanted to know if you'd been practicing your theft abilities on Sasrir again."
"I would never—" Amon began, then reconsidered. "Well. Perhaps occasionally. For educational purposes only, naturally."
"Naturally." Medici's tone was absolutely flat. "He also asked if you'd been investigating the Chaos Sea's depths."
This time, Amon's hand completed its journey to the monocle, adjusting it with deliberate slowness. A tell, perhaps, but Medici had known him long enough to expect such reactions.
"The Chaos Sea is fascinating," Amon said carefully. "The intersection of reality and illusion, the birthplace of the First Blasphemy Slate, the location where Father himself awakened. How could I *not* investigate?"
"Because your father explicitly forbade it."
"He forbade *entering* it. I merely observed from the periphery. Technically—"
"Technically," Medici interrupted, "you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."
"Worse than killed?" Amon's amusement returned, genuine and bright. "How delightfully ominous. Do elaborate."
But Medici had turned his attention back to the battlefield, where the last Dragon spawn was making a desperate stand. The creature—a twisted thing with six wings and eyes that wept molten gold—let out a keening wail that spoke of Ancient powers long diminished.
"The Ancient Gods ruled for epochs," Medici said quietly. "They were *born* with their power, mixed characteristics from multiple pathways, mad but potentially stronger than any single-pathway True God. Your father defeated them all. Systematically. Methodically. Without mercy."
"I'm aware of Father's accomplishments," Amon said, but he was listening now, truly listening.
"And yet," Medici continued, "he fears something. I've served him for over two thousand years, little raven. I've seen him face down the Giant King himself without flinching. But sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, I see him stare at the Chaos Sea with something that looks almost like *dread*."
Amon adjusted his monocle, the motion automatic now. "What do you think he fears?"
"Himself," Medici said simply. "Or what he might become."
Below, the last Dragon spawn fell, its death cry echoing across the coast before fading into silence. The Red of War Army stood victorious, their minds still linked to Medici's will, awaiting new orders.
But Amon barely noticed. His thoughts had turned inward, toward the Error Uniqueness that pulsed within his divine essence, toward the secrets his father kept even from his sons, toward the loopholes he couldn't help but notice in the seemingly perfect structure of their world.
"Medici," he said softly, "if you could steal anything—truly *anything*—what would it be?"
The War Angel was quiet for a long moment. Then: "The ability to change the past."
"Why?"
"Because the future is already written, little raven. We just don't know it yet."
Amon turned to look at him fully, and for once, his perpetual amusement faded entirely. "That's remarkably pessimistic."
"That's remarkably *honest*." Medici met his gaze, and something passed between them—an understanding, perhaps, or a warning. "Your father united humanity. He brought light to a world of darkness. He elevated us from slaves to masters of the continents. But convergence is a law unto itself, and what has been gathered will inevitably scatter. What has been illuminated will eventually return to shadow."
"Unless," Amon said slowly, adjusting his monocle, "one finds the loophole."
"There are no loopholes in the laws of the universe."
"*Everything* has loopholes, Medici. One simply needs to look closely enough." Amon's smile returned, but it carried an edge now, something sharp and slightly mad. "That's what my pathway teaches. That's what Father gave me—the ability to find the errors, the gaps, the places where reality doesn't quite fit together properly."
He vanished again, stealing himself away, leaving Medici alone on the cliff.
But before he fully departed, before the theft of spatial coordinates completed, Amon looked back one final time.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it. "For the warning."
Then he was gone, and Medici was left staring at the space where the divine son had stood, wondering—not for the first time—if the Ancient Sun God had made a terrible mistake when he carved away the Error Uniqueness and gave it consciousness.
---
Amon reappeared in his private chambers—a space that existed somewhere between the Material World and Spirit World, accessible only through theft and trickery. Here, surrounded by artifacts stolen from every corner of the continents, he finally allowed his mask to slip.
His hand went to his monocle, adjusting it compulsively as his mind raced through possibilities, permutations, loopholes within loopholes.
Father feared the Chaos Sea. Father had separated the Visionary and Error Uniquenesses from himself. Father ruled with absolute authority yet sometimes stared into nothing with expression like dread.
And Amon, born with the Error Uniqueness fully accommodated, natural Mythical Creature at Sequence 1, could *feel* the loopholes in that fear. Could sense the gaps in the story everyone told about the great Ancient Sun God who had saved humanity.
"What are you hiding, Father?" he whispered to the empty room, his reflection multiplying in the countless stolen mirrors that lined his walls. "What convergence do you fear so desperately that you carved away parts of yourself to resist it?"
No answer came, of course. But Amon smiled anyway, adjusting his monocle one final time.
Because unanswered questions were, after all, simply another type of locked door.
And Amon had never met a lock he couldn't eventually steal the key to.
Even if that key was hidden in the heart of the Chaos Sea itself.
Even if finding it meant discovering truths that gods were meant to keep buried.
Even if—
His thoughts cut off as awareness suddenly flooded through him. His father's consciousness, vast and terrible and warm, brushed against his own like sunlight through storm clouds.
*Amon*, the Ancient Sun God's voice resonated directly into his divine essence. *Come to the Grand Temple. It is time you and your brother learned the truth about the burden of godhood.*
The connection severed as quickly as it had formed, leaving Amon alone with his stolen treasures and the uncomfortable realization that perhaps his father had been watching more closely than he'd thought.
He adjusted his monocle—a gesture of defiance, of calculation, of barely suppressed excitement.
"How very *interesting*," Amon murmured, and vanished once more into stolen distance.
Behind him, in the mirrors that lined his walls, his reflection continued to smile.
And somewhere in the depths of the Chaos Sea, something ancient and primordial stirred in its eternal sleep, responding to the presence of a consciousness that had been separated from it but never truly freed.
The convergence had already begun.
It was only a matter of time before even gods learned they couldn't escape the laws they thought they ruled.
---
**[End of Chapter 1]**
*Author's Note: This story explores the Third Epoch during the Ancient Sun God's reign, focusing on Amon's perspective as he begins to uncover the hidden truths behind his father's seemingly perfect world. Future chapters will delve deeper into the relationships between the Eight Kings of Angels, the looming threat of the Primordial God Almighty's consciousness, and Amon's growing understanding of the loopholes that exist even in divine law.*